


One Last Adventure

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger deferred, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual unspoken forgiveness, Feelings with very little plot?, M/M, No Sex, No bloody noses, No fists, Post Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, alternate reunion, deep sorrow, no case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-14 01:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14760320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: Nearing the two year anniversary, John is still so mired in his grief that he sees only one way to escape the pain. One morning he awakes from a fitful sleep, knowing that it’s time. One last adventure to say goodbye to the man who, for a precious, breathtakingly brief moment, made his life worth living.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will never write a 'Major Character Death,' but when I was writing this story, I was reminded of a line of dialogue from an episode of MacGyver, the original with Richard Dean Anderson, titled "Passages." "I don't think it's the end of anything. It's more like just another step along way." 
> 
> That quote helped me keep my equilibrium so I could surround John with the sense of loss and thoughts of taking his own life to end the pain. I might bring him to the edge, but I will never be able to throw him into the abyss.
> 
> This is not a WIP. I am editing each chapter as I post.

“But where will you go?” 

Although the day was hours old, the sunlight had only just begun to spread over Baker Street below the window where John stood, his fingers fisted around the edges of the thick drapery. He didn’t need to see Mrs. Hudson standing behind him to know there were tears in her eyes. Her fear and worry was palpable and he imagined she was wringing her hands as well. 

John sighed. “I don’t know, Mrs. Hudson, but I can’t stay here another day.”

“Do you...will you ever come home again?” she asked, her voice quivering.

John finally turned, stepping away from the window. He shook his head slowly. “No. I can’t. It’s just...the memories. In just a few days it will be two years. Two years, Mrs. Hudson and it’s only gotten harder without him.”

“Oh, John,” she said, reaching out to hold his hands.

“There’s no point in it anymore. Every day, every single day is a constant reminder of what was and what will never be again, and,” he whispered, “what might have been. He was my whole life, Mrs. Hudson. There’s nothing left for me.”

“John.”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson. I just can’t.” John wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek. She held him gently; if she felt the Sig tucked against his back, she didn’t say anything. John was grateful for that small grace.

At the door, he stopped and gazed around the room. For a moment he imagined Sherlock sitting in his chair, plucking at the strings of the Strad. When he came back to himself, he saw the Strad abandoned on the same chair as though any moment Sherlock would stride through the door...but, no, he would never come home again.

“Take care of yourself, Mrs. Hudson and thank you for taking care of us. I know that for all his contrariness, Sherlock considered you his surrogate mother. I do, too.”

“I hope you will change your mind, John. It’s not good for you to be alone.”

John lowered his head to stare at the floor. “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me,” he said, his voice breaking, “Sherlock was my best friend and I loved him.” 

“I know dear,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tea towel.

John sniffed, swiping at a runaway tear. “Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson."

Reaching down for his duffle, he hurried down the seventeen stairs before he could change his mind. At the bottom step, he pretended not to hear his ‘landlady-not-your-housekeeper-dear’ softly sobbing.

John hesitated just long enough to push the knocker askew. He wished Sherlock could see the small gesture. Stepping down to the pavement, he turned toward the Baker Street tube station at the junction with Marylebone Road and never looked back.

0o0

Mrs. Hudson watched from the window for the brief few moments it took for John to pass from her sight. Overcome with grief, she sat in Sherlock’s chair, holding his violin on her lap, caressing it with her fingers. 

More than an hour later, she rose from the chair, lovingly placed the Strad in its case and left it on the chair seat. On her way to the door, Mrs. Hudson lingered at the the sitting room table where two abandoned laptops sat side by side. 

Not an accomplished computer person, but informed enough to give it a go, Mrs. Hudson nevertheless lifted the lid on the laptop that sat at the place John most often occupied. It came to life before her eyes, causing her heart to skip a beat.

There before her eyes was a site for Brighton, East Sussex, featuring the Undercliff Walk. As she stared at the photo of the white cliffs, the laptop pinged, some sort of message she supposed. Lightly pressing her finger to the trackpad as Sherlock had once taught her, she moved the cursor to open the tiny dancing envelope in the corner.

“Oh,” she gasped and began to cry. When she finally got herself under control some minutes later, she searched her apron pocket for her phone. With shaking fingers she desperately tried to contact John. At the first ring, there was a corresponding ping from the table in front of her.

Pushing aside the scattered newspapers, she uncovered John’s phone. 

“Oh, John, what have you done?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Will you wait for me, please?” John asked the cabby. “I won’t be long.” At the cabby’s nod, he turned away, certain he’d been recognised, and relieved that the man was decent enough to keep it to himself. 

“I just need to say goodbye one last time,” he murmured so softly he barely heard his own voice.

As quickly as his leg would allow, it ached with a vengeance this day, John set off through the cemetery gate, weaving his way between the gravestones toward the place he’d visited so many times that he was sure he could find it with his eyes shut. 

As he approached the black gravestone with the gold, embossed lettering, John felt the same tightness, constriction, really, in his chest as he had the first time, and every time since. Even if he lived a thousand years, it would never, never get any easier. There was no amount of time that could heal the pain in his heart, no other friend to fill the emptiness Sherlock had left behind.

Stepping forward to rest his hand on the cold stone, John lowered his chin to his chest, inhaling sharply as his own words, though slightly altered from the first time, filled his mind, and soon tumbled from his severely restricted throat. 

“I am so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, just for me, don’t be dead. Would you do that just for me?”

“John.”

Raising his head, John narrowed his eyes to look around, but, of course, there was no one nearby. He’d been hearing Sherlock’s familiar baritone nearly every day since, but never more clearly than here at his grave. In the early days, when he’d still believed Sherlock was alive, he’d searched the cemetery, following the voice, but, the Consulting Detective was never there. He’d lost count of the many times he’d been certain he’d seen him, only to find himself alone in a desolate part of the old cemetery. 

“Well, I just wanted to say goodbye, Sherlock. And to tell you how much I still miss you,” John whispered, his voice breaking, and tears threatening. “I have one more place to visit, one more place to remember you. I’ll see you when I get there, well, not see you, but you know what I mean. You always do.”

Just as he had each time he’d visited Sherlock here, John stood tall, tipped his head once, turned on his heel and walked away without looking back. 

For the last time.

0o0

John handed over some notes for the fare and considerably more than the 15% for a tip before stepping out of the cab at Victoria train station. The cabby raised an eyebrow and nodded.

“Thanks,” John offered, shifting his duffle from his left to his right hand and flexing his fingers to chase away the tingling that had spread from his shoulder to his fingertips. The relief lasted only a few seconds. 

He supposed not a lot of people boarded a train to Sussex mid-morning and when he stepped to the counter, purchased his ticket and boarded quickly, he did so without any further thought, reminiscent, he decided of the first few days after..and some part of every day since.

Purposely choosing a seat away from the other passengers so he wouldn’t be bothered, he sighed when an older woman, perhaps near Mrs. Hudson’s age, eased into the seat beside him.

John wanted to be rude enough to stand up and move to another seat, or ask her to go away, but he couldn’t do that. That was Sherlock’s area. He smirked for a brief moment, then turned toward the window.

“Excuse me, Dr. Watson, I won’t be but a minute. I would never be able to forgive myself if I didn’t stop just long enough to say I’m sorry for your loss.”

At the touch of her hand to his arm, John turned toward her. He smiled, nodding because he was afraid his voice would fail him. “Thank you,” he managed around the clot in his throat.

Rising from beside him, she patted his arm again. “Take care of yourself, Dr. Watson.” She was gone a moment later.

If she only knew, he thought, blinking away the burning behind his eyes and turning back to the window. Minutes later the train rumbled its way out of the station. 

Once the train left London behind, John closed his eyes and let the motion and vibration of the carriage take him away.

In his mind John relived the previous day, the day he’d set aside to make his goodbyes. Saying goodbye to Greg wasn’t at all easy, even though he never let it slip that he wouldn’t return. Greg had a momentary look of concern, but when John told him he just needed to get away for awhile, he’d accepted it. 

He’d spent the rest of that last full day in London visiting a few places that were special because of Sherlock, but not Barts, though he would have liked to have seen Mike one last time and maybe Molly, if she hadn’t been avoiding him still. Barts was bookended with a beginning and an end, and he just couldn’t go there.

At Tesco he'd bought a few apples to take with him and when he passed the meat area, where the pork was on special, the harpoon incident struck him. He almost smiled. And he didn’t have a row with the chip and pin machine, but the memory of it gutted him.

He denied anything connected to the consulting criminal or any of the darkness that tried to force its way into his mind. Only bits of memories that didn’t pummel what was left of his shattered heart were allowed.

The drugs bust surfaced briefly as he remembered those other-worldly eyes staring into the depths of his soul. That was the first moment he tinkered with the idea that more might be possible.

Angelo’s. The candle..he liked to remember it now as their first date, juxtaposed with the panic he’d felt when Sherlock was at the mercy of the bloody-awful cabby. When he looked back on it from a distance, he wondered if Sherlock knew...


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please.”

“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.”

“This station is Brighton.”

Brighton, East Sussex, John thought as he startled awake. He’d slept, glancing at his watch to determine the time, nearly an hour. An hour filled with broken images. His heart thudded in his chest from the last one, the one that was never any different, the one that destroyed his life.

Pulling his duffle with him as he struggled to his feet, John stepped from the train, stumbling a bit as he did so. A hand circled his bicep to steady him.

“Easy, mate. Wouldn’t do to have you fall,” the voice said from behind. A deep voice, but the accent was wrong.

John turned to glance at his rescuer. Not Sherlock. “Thank you, a bit of a cramp.”

“Alright now?”

“Yes, thank you.”

John limped away from the man as quickly as his legs would allow. Once past the turnstile, he hurried to the nearest door, climbing into the first green and white cab.

“Seafront, please. As close to it as you can get. I know traffic is a problem.”

“I can get you within site of the Undercliff, Dr. Watson.”

John looked back at him, resigned to the recognition. “That’s fine, thanks.”

True to his word, the cabby dropped him off at the seafront, stopping just long enough for John to pay the fare and struggle his way out onto the pavement.

“Dr. Watson?”

John raised his head and turned back toward the cabby. “Yes?”

“I know it’s been a long time, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Mr. Holmes.”

John’s eyes filled as he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He could only nod his thanks and walk away toward the sea. He realised as he stared at the incoming waves that this trip had become a fool’s errand. Not only was he unfamiliar with the area, he had neither the knowledge of where to find information on bees nor where Sherlock might have wanted to raise his beloved bees, nor even where in Sussex might be the location of the Beekeepers Association. 

Lost in this place, without his consulting detective, John dropped to the ground, not caring if it might be wet, knees against his chest, and arms wrapped round. He stared at the water, only vaguely aware of the people walking past him, sometimes just an arm’s length away.

No longer with any sense of time past, John was drawn out of his sorrow by the distinctive sound of a helicopter in the distance. As it approached, it flew low along the water. It was black, and it reminded him of someone and a case he didn’t want to remember. 

Habit forced him to curl into himself, making himself as small as possible until the helicopter continued on, disappearing into the distance. 

No one knew he was here. No one kept watch over him anymore, as had been the case in the early weeks and months after-

John sighed heavily, returning his gaze to the water. Perhaps it didn’t matter whether he actually found the Beekeeper’s Association, maybe just that he was here in the Sussex area would be honouring Sherlock’s memory. Afterall, Sherlock was always with him, a part of him in his thoughts and in his heart.

Sentiment was not Sherlock’s area, but John knew in his own heart that his consulting detective would have understood. 

Forcing himself to his feet, John pulled the strap of his duffle over his shoulder and walked back to the pavement. He wasn’t hungry in the least, Sherlock would have been amazed at that, but he did stop to purchase a bottle of water and some chips because the doctor/soldier in him insisted he needed to eat and drink something and Sherlock always helped himself to his chips.

Returning to the seafront after a visit to a public toilet, John ignored the second sweep of the helicopter. Foolish tourists who needed watching, he supposed. When there was no further fly-by, John’s thoughts turned where they always did: to Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

As the shadows lengthened, John remained at the seafront. When sitting caused stiffness in his legs and back, he walked, stopping only at a tiny sandwich shop for a coffee and a cheese toastie that he ate while walking. Sherlock loved cheese toasties. 

It was during one of his walks that his instincts awakened from two years of neglect to the sensation that he was being watched. While he observed the few tourists passing by him, his gaze was particularly drawn to a man reminiscent of his consulting detective staring into a shop window. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, as he remembered the hopeless searches at the cemetery, and dismissed the sighting as wishful thinking. A magic trick. Still, John’s hackles, as well as his fight or flight response, remained on full alert.

After another stop at the public toilets, John returned to the same area of the seafront, sitting on the edge of the pavement instead of the gravel. When the wind shifted, John rummaged in his duffle for his jacket, pulled it on, fastened it, making sure the Sig was safely out of sight.

Later, as the dinner hour approached, John noticed that those with children were the first to disperse. Gradually, others packed up and left until there were only a scattered few. One, a tall man with dark curls poking out from under a cap, the one from the shops, John was certain, passed by him at barely an arm’s length. The ragged jacket hanging on a frame that was too thin for his height, rumpled jeans and dirty trainers, as well as his slouch and unsteady gait, forced his attention to others on the beach until his heart returned to its normal rhythm. 

With his duffle securely over his shoulder, John walked the shore, never straying too close to the incoming tide. Here he was in Sussex, not far he imagined from where a retired consulting detective might have at some time in the future owned a small bee farm. His heart ached, both for himself and for his best friend who would never retire or achieve his dream.

Sherlock was always with him like a shadow on the periphery, in the tail of his eye, but always just beyond his reach. This was where it all would end, because he couldn’t live this half-life any longer. A life without Sherlock was no life at all. 

When his legs tired so that he stumbled more than he gained distance, John stopped. Surveying the surrounding area assured him he was alone. He turned toward the sea, ready at last. 

Finding the words was at first no easier than when he stood beside Sherlock’s grave, but eventually he opened himself to it and was flooded with thoughts of Sherlock, a kaleidoscope of such vivid memories washing over him that he expelled a heavy breath as the words finally coalesced in his mind. Perhaps it was easier now, knowing this was the last of it.

“Um..I still dream about you, y’know, well, except for the nights when I’ve gotten drunk enough to pass out. I don’t sleep much otherwise, so it’s the only relief I get. You’re always there. I am glad for that, I am, but it’s tearing me apart.” 

John swiped at the tears that brimmed and streamed down his cheeks, and cleared his clotted throat a few times before continuing.

“I came here because this is where you wanted to retire one day. I always hoped I would spend the rest of my life with you, here, if you would have me, in whatever way you would have me. John Lennon was right when he sang ‘life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.’ Or in this case, death is what happened. It was a wish that wasn’t meant to be granted, I think.”

John wiped his tears on his sleeve as sobs broke free. Covering his mouth with his hand did little to smother his cries.

“You weren’t supposed to go before me, Sherlock,” he shouted toward the sea, nearly choking on his words.

The familiar ache in his chest that was his constant companion constricted even more as he swiped at his tears again. The muscles in his chest shuddered, making breathing difficult; he struggled to speak, but he had to say the words aloud, as though in doing so they might find their way to Sherlock.

“I never got to say goodbye either, so I’m saying it now. If there is something more...after this life, and god, I hope there is, I promise I will not stop searching until I find you. I hope you’ll be there because I want to tell you that I love you and have since the day we first met and I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you while you were still here with me.”

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes John choked back another sob. “I can’t do...this anymore, Sherlock.”

“Nn-aw.”


	5. Chapter 5

John felt his weapon slide from the waistband at his back. Too late, much too late, his instinct kicked him in the arse. “Shite,” he whispered, slowly turning to face his would-be assailant. 

“I don’t have much, what there is, you can have. I won’t need it anymore,” he said, holding the currency out toward the man.

There was an audible groan from the disheveled man as he stared down at the Sig in his hand. “Nn-aw,” the man repeated, fumbling with the weapon until he’d removed the clip. 

“Sorry, what?” 

The man swayed toward John and looked as though he might collapse. Uneasy, his guard up because of the man’s odd behaviour, John watched him with a critical eye. Raggedy man struggled to find his pocket, then rummaged in it for something that seemed important. He groaned, pressing a hand to the side of his head, the Sig falling to the ground.

The man growled in frustration, nearly tearing away the pocket of his jacket before finally pulling out a phone. With great difficulty, he pressed several keys, pausing for long moments between each action.

With the gun on the ground, and the unstable condition of the man, John was confident enough to take a small step forward. As he did so, the man thrust the phone toward him, although he kept his head down, his cap still pulled low over his face.

“Ook,” he grunted with great emphasis, his frustration obvious. “Ook,” he said again, shaking the phone with a twist of his wrist.

John observed the man for a moment longer before turning his attention to the phone.

NOT DEAD. HOME SOON. I’M SORRY. 

“I don’t.." Understanding dawned a few seconds later, his heart rate spiked and his lungs refused to draw in a full breath. “Oh, God.”

The raggedy man slowly raised his head at John’s words, allowing his face to be fully visible for the first time. The changeling eyes John knew from all others, confused, red-rimmed and brimming with tears, gazed back at him. It was the fear in those iridescent eyes that propelled him forward.

“Saw-y. Um saw-y.”

Sherlock reached out to him as his knees gave way. Ever the protector, John wrapped one arm round Sherlock’s waist, and with the other cradled his curly head against his shoulder. Twisting his body at the last second to take the brunt of the fall, they tumbled together, Sherlock’s face tucked against John’s neck and John’s arms still firmly round his detective. 

After some time, John sat up to manoeuvre Sherlock between his legs, his head cradled in the crook of his arm. Once settled, John rested his free arm across Sherlock’s chest, and for the first time his mind registered the startling array of bruises and stitches on his beautiful face. He cried at the sight.

“Sherlock?” He choked out the name he’d only spoken when he was alone with his memories.

The detective drew in a deep breath, but didn’t open his eyes.

“Ja-awn?”

“Right here. I’ve got you, you idiot,” he said through his tears as he gently prised the cap from him, setting his exquisite curls free.

“Ja-awn?”

“It’s all right, just rest for a bit while I sort out my heart and get it back where it belongs.”

Sherlock awkwardly patted John’s hand. “Done cry. I saw-wy.”

“You are alive and you’re here. Christ, Sherlock, I will cry if I want to.” He hadn’t intended to shout.

“Myy-crofz ear.”

John looked down at his best friend. “What? Mycroft’s ear? No, don’t say it, you’ve told me a million times you don’t like to repeat yourself.”

And there it was. In his mind’s eye, every part of him, really, he could feel the ragged edges of their friendship knitting themselves together again.

Sherlock groaned, pressing his hand to the side of his head. 

At once in immediate full doctor mode, John tipped his head to observe Sherlock at a slightly different angle. There was more there than just the bruises. Lifting Sherlock’s eyelids, John knew at first glance that the niggling in the back of his mind was the truth. Unequal dilation of Sherlock’s pupils clearly indicated a concussion, one of several symptoms he’d instantly observed.

Gently palpating Sherlock’s cheek gave him a clue to the detective’s mangled speech. Using the rest of his drinking water on his hand, then wiping it on his reasonably clean shirt, John slipped an index finger into Sherlock’s mouth between his cheek and his teeth and then retreated quickly. 

“Ja-awn. Ooo.”

“I think you mean ‘ew’?”

“Ooo.”

“Your jaw is wired shut.”

Sherlock offered his familiar exaggerated smile. Those gorgeous lips, just the sight of which made his gut go round and round the garden like a teddy bear.

“Ob-veesly.”

John rolled his eyes, just like old times. “Don’t talk. Just nod your head.”

Sherlock obeyed.  
“And you weren’t talking about Mycroft’s ear, were you? Mycroft’s here? Don’t talk, just nod, Sherlock, I will repeat myself as often as I have to.”

Sherlock raised a shaking hand to lay it over John’s heart, offering a single nod of his head. The doctor smiled down at him and pulled him tightly against his chest. 

“Ja-awn.”

“Shh, when we get home to Baker Street you can talk to me via your laptop.”

“K.” Sherlock managed with a sigh and what John recognised as a grimace of pain.

“So, we just wait for Mycroft to fetch us?” John whispered to himself, glancing round the area. When he looked back down, Sherlock had turned his ear against John’s belly. The doctor’s heart skipped, and the detective smiled, nuzzling into John’s shirt. As if the sea might rush in and steal Sherlock away, John held him close, revelling in the relief and joy he felt. And, he admitted again, if only to himself, there was a fair bit of love there, too. 

A miracle just for me, John remembered. It was enough. The how didn’t matter. The why would have to wait for another day. This time, now, was all he cared about.


	6. Chapter 6

The slanting sun of early evening held the two of them in its warmth for a time. Sherlock, in fitful slumber, curled into and clinging to him, was worth the numbness in his legs and the ache in his lower back and arse. He’d spent a good amount of time bent over Sherlock, examining his stitches and bruises in varying stages of healing and pronounced him more beautiful than he remembered. 

When he finally looked up and surveyed the area for any sign of The British Government, it struck him as odd that the seafront was deserted. On his periphery, he noticed a small gathering of men in black coats. Others fanned out at the access point, apparently closing off the area from curious tourists. John shielded his eyes from the waning sun and there, just yards away, like a spectre at the feast, stood Mycroft Holmes, looking for all the world like a pompous arse surveying his kingdom.

Just moments later it seemed, a shadow fell across them, blocking what little warmth the sun offered at that late hour.

“Myy-crofz ear.” 

Sherlock stirred, as though even in sleep he’d been aware of his brother’s presence. Or, John mused for a moment, Sherlock had been feigning sleep, or they really did have some sort of telepathic connection between them. He was never quite convinced of Mycroft’s long ago dismissal of such a notion.

“Two vanilla and banana smoothies one straw, one spoon. My brother has had little to eat today. It’s important that he-”

“Not now, Mycroft,” John snapped, accepting the smoothies for Sherlock’s sake.

Handing the smoothies to John, Mycroft raised one superior eyebrow, the glare beneath it, it seemed to John, more amused than angry. “I’ll leave you to it then. Our transportation will arrive in fifteen minutes.”

With no further comment, Mycroft retreated, taking up his former position at the edge of the seafront.

0o0

Time seemed to stand still for those interminable fifteen minutes. At the first recognisable sound of the approaching helicopters, John caressed one unblemished cheekbone to rouse Sherlock.

“Ear dem, Ja-awn,” Sherlock mumbled as John helped him to sit up. 

“Okay,” John simply replied. He could only imagine how Sherlock felt in his present condition. Thinking ahead, John knew the journey home would not be an easy one.

The helicopter set down enough distance away to avoid kicking up any debris. Covering Sherlock’s ears with his hands to deaden the sound John waited for the rotors to stop before easing himself up onto his feet.

Mycroft reappeared at his side. “Have you your land legs?”

“I will in a bit.” The blood rushing into his legs after such a long time was painful, but he stood in place so that Sherlock could lean against him while still in his sitting position. Keeping one hand tangled in the dark curls enabled him to maintain contact with each stroke of his fingers.

Both John and Mycroft lifted Sherlock to his feet, each with an arm around his waist and a grip on his elbows. That he didn’t protest during the slow walk to the helicopter spoke to his level of pain. 

John peered inside the passenger area. “Is there-”

“There is a bench seat and two single seats. More than enough room for Sherlock to lie down. I have seen to every accomodation for his comfort.”

John nodded, entering the cabin first, and reaching back, guided Sherlock forward while Mycroft stood behind with a hand on his brother’s lower back. Sitting at the end of the bench seat, John encouraged Sherlock to lie down, cradling his head in his lap.

“Headache?” 

With barely a nod and his eyes shut tight, he clearly communicated his distress. 

Pleased that the safety belts were long enough, John secured his own, then Sherlock’s. When settled and ready for the flight to London, he was surprised when Mycroft knelt beside his brother.

“Sherlock, I have noise cancelling headphones for your comfort. I suggest you keep your eyes closed as much as possible. If you must open them, focus on John. This is not the best travel with a concussion, but it is the most expeditious. I can’t promise a smooth flight, but the pilot will do his best for you. Flight time will be approximately thirty minutes.”

“K,” Sherlock whispered, turning his head for John to fit the headphones.

He’d expected a haughty ‘I’m not a child, Mycroft.’ Rarely had John observed such a compliant Sherlock. His insides melted; he just wanted to protect him, take care of him. He wanted to surround him with his love. At that thought he felt a flush crawl up his neck. Thankfully, Mycroft was back to his seat and staring at his phone.

As the helicopter lifted off, Mycroft handed John a headset, gesturing for him to put it on. When John complied, Mycroft did the same.

“John, since Sherlock cannot hear anything but white noise, the information I am about to disclose is for your ears alone.”

“No, Mycroft, I won’t keep secrets from him. Secrets are what got us into this, a secret that nearly destroyed me, and by the looks of him, nearly got him killed. Whatever you tell me I will share with him, when and if I, not you, think it’s the right time.”

“Obviously that is your prerogative. I can’t force you to keep it from him.”

John frowned. “You could always kidnap me and drop me into the Thames.”

“How droll, John. My brother would never forgive me for making you disappear.” 

“But you would, if you felt I was a threat to Sherlock, you wouldn’t think twice.”

Mycroft scowled. “You are mistaken, John. If you are ready, I will give you the abbreviated edition of how Sherlock found you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Once we located Sherlock in Serbia, he was evacuated to a hospital in Germany for triage. He refused to remain for observation and treatment of the fracture in his jaw, creating such a disturbance that I was forced to schedule an emergency flight to bring him to London.” Mycroft paused for a long moment, turning his gaze to some point beyond the window.

“Nothing is ever simple with Sherlock. You, better than anyone know that.” John was angry, and didn’t care to hide it.

“Yes, I do, however, he was weak and injured and I, as well as he, just wanted to be home and safe.” 

John waited for a count of ten. “Is there more?”

Drawing in a breath, the British Government turned toward him again. “Yes, apologies. Once we returned to London, I was able to convince Sherlock to remain in hospital for two nights to be treated for his many less serious injuries. Even with his jaw immobilised, he was insufferable. He only wanted to be reunited with you.” 

John’s heart skipped, but he only allowed himself a bit of a smile. “Go on.”

“Obviously, Mrs. Hudson was distressed when you told her you would not be returning to Baker Street, however she was not so distressed that she couldn’t take it upon herself to do a bit of sleuthing of her own. The dear lady contacted me when she saw Sherlock’s message on your phone and the search for Sussex you’d left open on your computer. I was quite annoyed with myself at first for having told her our location but as it turned out, I am grateful for her interference and tenacity. I shudder to think of what might have been had she not appeared at Sherlock’s bedside after eluding hospital security at nearly midnight, and only moments after I had returned from a briefing with the surgeon.”

John didn’t need to see Mycroft’s steely gaze, it was as if the man had invaded his mind long enough to impress upon him something he was unable to say aloud. The doctor appreciated the attempt more than he wanted to admit, but chose not to comment.

“Mrs. Hudson’s pretty stealthy when she wants to be,” was all he said to divert the conversation a bit. He gave Mycroft only that much courtesy. One day, he and Mycroft would talk.

“She told him what she had told me. He checked himself out against his doctor’s advice, and disappeared. I don’t know how he got here so quickly. In his condition, only his fierce determination to find you before it was too late could have sustained him. Once he arrived in Brighton, he contacted me via text from your phone, he’s an accomplished pickpocket, if you didn’t know, to notify me of his location and also to tell me he was following you and, rather politely I might add, requested air transport because he doubted a train was the most advantageous choice of travel for someone with a grade two concussion.”

John returned his gaze to Sherlock as he considered the words Mycroft delivered as though he were debriefing one of his minions. 

“So it was him that I saw at the shops.”

“Perhaps, but I suspect that it was more likely one of his Homeless Network. His transport, as it were, was undoubtedly not performing at full capacity. He would have needed help.”

“The men in the black coats are yours?”

“Yes, they are on their way back to London as we speak.”

“And the others?”

“Off duty East Sussex police. Once we knew where you and Sherlock were, Lestrade called in a favor with a friend in the local constabulary. He’ll be wanting an apology for lying to him, John.”

John nodded, but couldn’t dredge up anything to say.

“I have sent Sherlock’s diagnosis and pertinent information to your email. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

John knew he’d been summarily dismissed, which was fine with him. He’d heard enough anyway. Leaning back against the headrest, he closed his eyes, hoping the elder Holmes would get the message. When Mycroft said nothing more, John had his answer, so he muted the headset. 

Tangling his fingers in the dark curls beneath his hand, to comfort himself as much as Sherlock, he drew in several calming breaths at the thought of how close he’d come to ending himself and losing it all.


	7. Chapter 7

Grade Two concussion. John processed the symptoms in his mind. He knew Sherlock had a headache, and he’d noticed his balance was precarious, so there was dizziness as well. Blurred vision was possible, probable, expect the worst case scenario with Sherlock until he observed otherwise. He’d need to ask about that and if there was ringing in his ears. Sensitivity to light and noise were a daily normal for Sherlock. Time would tell if there were behaviour or personality changes. Having his jaws wired shut added another layer of frustration for him. Keeping him calm, fed and comforted fell to him. It was a responsibility he accepted without reservation.

When the helicopter set down in a private area at Battersea, a government car was there. John waited for the rotors to power down before removing Sherlock’s headset, and rousing him by caressing his cheek.

“We’re at Battersea, Sherlock, ten minutes from home,” John informed him in a soft voice. 

Before John could stop him, Sherlock rose from his reclined position as he normally would. With a groan, he held his head in his hands, what little color he’d had in his face turned ashen with a bit of green. 

John pulled him back down onto his lap. “Close your eyes and breathe, Sherlock, until everything settles down.”

Another ten minutes went by before Sherlock was able to sit up but not without support.

“Dizzy?”

Leaning his head against John’s shoulder was a powerful confirmation of how poorly he felt. 

“When you’re ready, would you let me help you?”

“‘Es.”

“Should I take that as a yes?”

“Mm.”

“Good. Take all the time you need. Your brother has nothing better to do than to sit there glaring at me.”

“Hm?”

“He briefed me on your condition as though I was an idiot, and informed me that he’d sent your records to my email.”

“Owch.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to know you still appreciate my expertise as a doctor.”

Sherlock reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. John squeezed back to acknowledge his gesture. 

“W-an-ger”

“Wanker, right you are.”

The rumble of gentle laughter in Sherlock’s chest eased a bit of John’s concern. Humor had always been their way of communicating, although it didn’t always work out the way either expected. 

“Oo uners-tan.”

“Yes, I understand you. More than you know.”

“Ja-awn.”

“You’re welcome. Now, let’s get you out of here.”

0o0

So much had happened in the one day he’d been away from Baker Street that he was afraid to look back on it, that if he did, it would spoil the possibility, small though it was, of a second chance at a life with Sherlock on whatever the terms. 

John tapped his feet on the floorboard, his restlessness getting the better of him. Sherlock’s hand squeezing his thigh startled him, forcing him to quiet himself, but it was the long, elegant fingers curling over his that set his heart racing. Soon the curly head rested against his, those pouty lips dangerously close to his ear.

“Iz o-kay.”

“I hope so,” John whispered, more than grateful Mycroft had taken the forward passenger seat, ‘for privacy,’ he’d said.

“Iz o-kay.”

John adjusted position so that their hands were palm to palm, fingers intertwined. Sherlock’s breath against his cheek couldn’t have been more welcome. 

The car came to a smooth stop at the kerb; the driver stepped out at once to open the door. It was not the most natural thing in the world for John to want to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, but that was exactly what he did. He knew it was all fine when Sherlock squeezed his hand.

“I will accompany you to the flat, then take my leave,” Mycroft offered, leading the way to the door.

After Mrs. Hudson’s short welcome home, hugs for each of them and a scowl directed at Mycroft which made him snort, John guided Sherlock toward the stairs. Still holding Sherlock’s hand, John supported him as they climbed the seventeen steps slowly, only pausing for a moment at the turn.

The moment they were inside the flat, Sherlock quickly lowered himself to the sofa. 

“Rest for a bit, love. Once your brother disappears, I’ll help you get ready for bed.”

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock reached for his hand, squeezed it, and closed his eyes. 

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson waited for him in the kitchen. No one spoke in anything other than a normal tone for they knew Sherlock’s exceptional hearing would pick up even the softest voice. And, John believed, Sherlock would want to know whatever it was they had to say.

“John, Anthea has taken the liberty of filling your refrigerator with an abundance of items that are easily liquified. She also purchased a new blender.”

“Who knows what’s been growing in the old one since-” The silence that followed John’s aborted comment filled the kitchen. 

“Anyway, thanks, Mycroft. I’m sure the information you emailed to me will be helpful in keeping him comfortable.”

“Quite, John. Dr. Evenatti will, of course, be available to you, as will I.”

“Fine.” 

“I’ll be off, then.”

Wanting him to leave sooner rather than later, John remained silent. 

As soon as the door to the street closed, Mrs. Hudson moved toward him. Her embrace spoke more than any words she could have spoken. She released him and walked to the door, glancing back at each of them in turn.

“Thank you for all you did, Mrs. Hudson. You helped us get another chance, a new beginning.”

A tiny smile tilted her mouth. “See that you don’t muck it up, or you’ll have me to answer to, young man.” 

She was gone before John could find any appropriate words, but he did genuinely smile for the first time in a two long years.


	8. Chapter 8

John sat on the floor beside his miracle, his head resting on the edge of the cushion next to Sherlock’s shoulder because he didn’t want to disturb his sleep or let him out of his sight.

“Ja-awn.”

“Right here. I was going to ask if you wanted to shower, as long as you’re not too unsteady, but you looked so peaceful, I decided to let you sleep a bit longer.” 

“Baff.”

“That’s a better idea. Safer. Bath it is. Give me a minute to run the water and then I’ll come back for you.”

John blew out a steadying breath as he hurried from the tub to the bedroom, and back again, only to be startled by Sherlock’s presence on the toilet seat.

“So, you got here safely, any dizziness?” One look at his eyes and pallor was all John needed. “Don’t answer that.”

Gray eyes so sad and unfocused that they took his breath away looked back at him. Sherlock tried to smile, but failed.

“Come on, I’ll help you. Let’s get that pretty arse into the tub.” John bit down hard on his tongue the moment the words passed his lips. He couldn’t meet Sherlock’s gaze after that. His head screamed ‘Not now, Watson.’

John sat on the floor beside the tub while Sherlock bathed with his eyes closed. Neither spoke, but Sherlock hummed for a bit. Closing his own eyes as weariness slithered over him, he blamed it on the warmth of the room. Seconds later he startled at the shampoo bottle tapped against his arm.

“Sorry, it’s a bit warm in here, making me sleepy.” 

John couldn’t ignore the scars and bruises on Sherlock’s back as he worked the shampoo into his thick curls, but it was the sight of the goosebumps on Sherlock’s tender skin that urged John to quickly rinse out the shampoo while the water drained.

“There. Time to get out, slowly. It wouldn’t do for you to fall.”

With Dr. Watson firmly in place, John guided Sherlock out of the bath in all his naked glory and patted him dry as best he could.

Pulling a thick terry cloth robe from the back of the door, John helped Sherlock into it and looped the belt to cover his dignity.

Sherlock passed his hands over the material before lifting his eyes to meet John’s.

“Mrs. Hudson bought it for me, but it was too long. I liked the color because it reminded me of your-”

“Shrrt.”

“Your shirt, and you, yeah. The purple one, so I couldn’t give it away. I always thought I could give it to you when you came home.”

“Awber-sheen.”

John grinned at him. “Right, aubergine.” John patted Sherlock’s chest, again without thinking about personal space. When he looked up, their gazes locked, so reminiscent of that moment during the drugs bust...

John shook his head, glancing away when it became far more than overwhelming. “Come on, you need to sit down so I can dry your hair and then it’s to bed with you.”

Sherlock growled deep in his throat. “Mm-Mm.”

John smiled, threw a towel over his head and proceeded to dry his curls. He recognised a huff of protest emanating from beneath, only to be replaced by renewed humming after a few seconds.

When he was done and the beautiful riot of curls was mostly dry, John tossed the towel over the edge of tub. Sherlock sat stone-faced and silent when John brushed his hair.

“One more thing and then you can rest.”

John tangled his fingers in the dark curls and ruffled them. “There, that looks more like you.”

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes too shiny not to be tears threatening, but a tilt to the corner of his mouth conveyed his thanks.

“Come on, you. I’ll get you comfortable-”

“Uh-uh. C-ming wif.”

“Okay, if you think you’re up to it. Concussion..”

“Fine.”

A few steps down the hallway, Sherlock rested his hand on his shoulder. John curled an arm around Sherlock’s waist for extra measure. 

“Are you still dizzy?”

A tiny nod.

“Ringing in the ears?”

Sherlock dismissed his question with a wave of his hand.

“Sometimes?”

“Mm.”

“Here, sit at the table while I check out what’s in the fridge. Are you hungry?” John laughed. “What am I saying? You’re hardly ever hungry,” he said, trying to calm the hint of hysteria in his voice at the thought that Sherlock was alive.

“Ja-awn.”

“Wow. Mycroft really outdid himself. There’s enough food in here to feed-” 

John turned from the fridge to find Sherlock bent over the table, his head on his arm.

“Hey, are you okay? When was the last time you ate? Other than the smoothie Mycroft gave you. Sherlock, here, write it down. Don’t try to talk.”

Two words, in his familiar scrawl, which John read upside down. “Yesterday, noon?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Not good.”

“I help?”

“Here’s the recovery kit. They’re sterile, so we won’t have to wash them the first time. You open that and I’ll get a protein drink ready. I’m sure I saw quite a few, right, here they are.”

Sherlock had all the items on a clean tea towel spread out on the table and an annoyed but adorable frown on his face. John looked away to hide his grin as he drew the vanilla liquid into the syringe that Sherlock had held out to him.

“Good choice. It’s probably a bit too early in your healing process to be able to manoeuvre the squeeze bottle. You’ve done this at least once before?”

“Hmm.”

“So you know that you have to push in small amounts-” John stopped speaking when he saw the dark clouds gathering.  
“Right, I know, you’re not an idiot. Sorry. I just, never mind.”

Sherlock sighed, wrapping his arm around John’s waist and holding him close so that his head rested against the doctor’s belly while he wrote another note.

Tell me.

John cleared his throat, sighed, cleared his throat again. “I’m just so glad that you are alive. I really am.”

Me, too.

Sherlock pushed the note away and fitted the syringe into his mouth.

John sniffed and to avoid another shedding of tears, turned away to return all the supplies, wrapped in the tea towel, to a convenient spot on the worktop.

“I noticed there were a few dozen baby food jars in the cupboard. Some of them look interesting. Maybe you’ll let me taste them with you? Vegetable lasagna, there’s rice pudding and vegetable risotto. Or I can make the thing with the peas and puree it, without the garlic.”

Tapping the protein drink container, Sherlock held up the syringe towards John.

“More?” 

“Mm.”

“Mm, yes or Mm, good?”

“Id-jit.”

“Well, thank you for that.” John snorted, then wrapped an arm round Sherlock’s head and held him, because it seemed to be the right thing to do, and he simply wanted to hold him close. It seemed to him that they both needed the proximity.

After a bit, John cleared his throat as he reached for the protein drink to refill the syringe.

“Another full one or half?”

Sherlock pointed to the full amount without relinquishing his hold on John. 

“There are a few chocolate ones and a strawberry, I think, if you want an alternative next time. And I can always pop over to Tesco to get more. Mrs. Hudson won’t mind sitting with you.”

“Ja-awn?”

“Hm?”

Sherlock scribbled another note, holding it up for him to read.

You need to eat, John.

“I will, Sherlock. I will eat. Are you sure it won’t bother you if I eat solids when you can’t?”

Sherlock huffed. “Not chi-lllld.”

“Well,” John tried to tease, then thought better of it. “No, you’re right, you aren’t a child, but that doesn’t mean I won’t forget now and then and try to coddle you. I guess you’ll just have to live with it.”

Sherlock stood, and stepped out of his embrace.

“Bussh teet,” he announced as he walked away.

John let him go, watching his unsteady gait as he approached the door to the loo and wondering what he’d said wrong.

“Call me if you need help?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

John waited for a bit, but when the slamming and banging sounded ominous, he walked quietly down the hall, pausing to listen at the door that stood ajar. Sherlock was talking to himself, but his words were angry and unintelligible. By the tone of his voice, it was obvious that Sherlock was in the middle of a minor strop.

Pushing the door wide, he stepped into what could have been the aftermath of temper tantrum. His flatmate sat on the floor, his robe soaked with dental solution and the toothbrush snapped in two.

A major stop, then.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock averted his eyes, but the tears trickling down his cheeks were hard to ignore. Squatting down, he lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me help? We’re always better together.”

Helping him off the floor and onto the toilet seat, John draped a towel across his chest and over his shoulders, and prepared another small toothbrush.

“I’m sure you’re having a bit of trouble because your focus is off right now, so until it rights itself, I can help you. Give me a moment to think about this.”

John swiped at his tears, dropping a kiss to his hair. “I know this must be frustrating because you’re so independent, but for a little while, if you agree, we can put our heads together and figure out ways to keep your mouth fresh and minty.”

Sherlock nodded, slowly lifted his head, not protesting when John wriggled between his knees to be at eye level.

“There’s my lovely love.”

With a minimum of fuss and bother, John, with a toothbrush, squeeze bottle and various solutions, gently completed the task. 

“Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Tank oo.”

John beamed at him because, well, just because.

“You just have to swish the mouthwash. If I squeeze it in, can you swish it with your tongue?”

“Mm.”

“Hold the towel under your chin and I’ll squeeze the bottle. There’s just enough space in the back to get the point in. Just don’t choke, okay? I’ll use a small amount. Grunt when you have enough.”

Five minutes later they were done. 

“I think we can do do all of this regularly, but since you’re going to eat six or so meals during the day, we can be a little less thorough each time and rinse with salt water since we can’t get a brush inside. Then at the last each night, we’ll do a more thorough cleaning, yes?”

John wiped the residue from Sherlock’s face, following up with a warm flannel. Again he noticed the shiny, bright blue eyes looking back at him. In his heart, John knew that they would have to talk sooner rather than later, but not that night.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I had a bit of a brain cramp. There will be one more chapter after this, an epilogue, I think, to get Sherlock back to the man we all know and love. John will appreciate that, yes?

“Ja-awn.”

“Hm?”

“Eat.”

“I will, but let’s get you into your pyjamas and into bed. Then I’ll eat. Do you want your laptop?”

“Peas.”

At the bedroom door, John paused, turning back. Sherlock looked up to meet his gaze with a fearful expression on his face. 

“Minimum time on the laptop, Sherlock and if it bothers you, makes you dizzy or nauseous, promise me you’ll leave it for another day. I’ve just got you back, I don’t want to lose you again. Your amazing brain is too precious to take chances. Okay?”

“Es,” Sherlock promised, the fear sliding off his face as thought it had never been there.

Laying Sherlock’s pyjamas on the bed, the flannel bottoms and the ratty t-shirt he favored which John hadn’t the heart to dispose of after..that day, he turned to Sherlock and caught him staring, a frown adorning his mouth and that little rumple settled between his eyes. John struggled to breathe past the lump in his throat.

“Um, I’ll get your laptop if you can dress yourself? While I get something to eat you could, oh, I don’t imagine there are any new emails for you just yet. You can look at my email account. I have no password on my laptop anymore. Since you weren’t here, there didn’t seem to be any need. I’ll bring that, too, if you want to talk, or I can just sit next to you? If that’s okay.”

“Ja-awn.”

“Right, I’ll get a water bottle and your laptop.” John escaped the room and stood in the kitchen for however long it took him to get his breathing under control.

After delivering the laptop to Sherlock, who was already in bed, John left him alone while he prepared a quick dinner for himself. 

Dinner smelled good, at least before he sat down to eat. Without Sherlock, every meal was just another meal. Now that he’d come home, any distance was too far away, but how did Sherlock feel? That was the disconcerting mystery. 

After he’d finished the washing up, visited the loo for a quick shower, and pulled on his pyjamas, John tapped on the bedroom door. When there was no response he peered into the room to find the lights dimmed, the laptop set aside and himself lying with his arm over his face. He stared, for a moment not believing who was before his eyes, half expecting him to turn disappear from his sight. 

By his slow rhythmic breathing, Sherlock might have been asleep, but he was good at feigning any number of things, including death, but he pushed that aside. There would be time for that later.

Easing himself down on the edge of the bed, John was about to close the laptop when something caught his eye. Turning it for a better angle, he saw that it was a note.

 

I’m sorry, John. I didn’t realise. I’ve hurt you deeply. I hope that one day you will forgive me. I didn’t know what it was when I left you, but in the time away, I finally understood. I know that you’re uncomfortable talking about your feelings. We both have that in common. I heard you at the seafront. I love you, too, John. 

 

With his heart in his throat, John looked up to see Sherlock watching him, eyes shiny with tears. 

John closed the laptop, slipping it under the nightstand. Toeing out of his trainers, he lay down next to Sherlock, but not so close that he might protest or be uncomfortable. After a moment or two, they faced each other, silent, breathing together once more. 

John was terrified. He’d lost Sherlock once and barely survived. He couldn’t do it again. It would end him. He loved Sherlock, more than he’d ever thought possible. Was there more to it than that?

John started to speak several times, but his lips would not form the words, nor would his voice cooperate. 

Sherlock’s beautiful mouth lifted in a half smile. He rolled away, searching through the nightstand drawer. Grunting when he found what he sought, he turned back, placing it in John’s hand and closing his fingers around it.

When John opened his hand, he stared at it. “In for a penny,” he whispered.

“‘Es.”

John had everything to lose and everything to gain. Equally. His decision was made for him when he remembered that Sherlock told him that he loved him, too.

Releasing a sigh that prompted a odd little snort from the detective, John reached out to hold Sherlock’s hand.

“I missed you so much. When I lost you there was an emptiness inside me that no one else could fill. Not ever. There was nothing left for me without you.”

Sherlock surprised him by resting a hand against his cheek.

“Bad.”

“No, oh, don’t say that. Come here.”

John slipped an arm between the pillow and Sherlock’s neck and pulled him close so that their heads were together, but with no pressure on his fragile jaw.

“You don’t get to call my best friend bad. I won’t have it.”

“Saw-wy.”

“No apologies, either.”

“‘Ove yoo”.

“God, Sherlock, I love you so much. I never thought you would love me back.”

“Mee too.”

“If you don’t stop crying, I’m going to have to get the decongestant for you.”

“Naw. Stay. Peas.”

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” he whispered, wiping away his own tears as well as Sherlock’s. “There is nowhere else I want to be.”

Sherlock attached himself to John’s side as though he couldn’t get close enough. Without hesitation, John turned his head and pressed a kiss to his temple.

Despite how knackered he was, he knew there would be no sleep for him. As soon as he was sure that Sherlock was asleep, and not faking it, he freed one arm to slip his hand beneath his pillow. He held Mycroft’s dossier, as he’d called it, with all the information he wished he didn’t have to know.

Holding Sherlock with one arm and using his other to open the folder next to him on the bed, John fingered the first document, and in the dim light of the bedside table he began to read.

0o0

John startled awake to Sherlock straddling his body, shaking him in obvious panic and repeatedly shouting his name. 

John held his face in gentle hands. “I’m here, Sherlock. You’re safe, it’s okay, open your eyes.” 

“Nn-aw. Nn-aw. Nn-aw.”

“Shh, it’s all right, Sherlock, it’s me. It’s John. You’re home now. Your safe.”

“Ja-awn?” 

“Yeah, I’m right here,” he crooned with his most comforting voice. “I’m here.”

Chest heaving, Sherlock stared at him, not releasing him from a vice-like grip on his shoulders. John held his gaze, all the while feathering his fingers along Sherlock’s amazing cheekbones until he yielded to gentle coaxing to lie across his chest, his face tucked into the crook of John’s neck. 

Soon Sherlock found his way back to sleep once more. John didn’t sleep, his thoughts returning again and again to the information in the dossier that now lay under the mattress, where he’d hidden it once he’d finished reading. He wasn’t sure what, if anything, he would do with the information that now weighed on his heart. He only knew that unless Sherlock alluded to it at some point, and the genius would not be subtle about it, the knowledge would be his well-kept secret. At least for a while, for as long as it took for Sherlock to deduce him and it. 

John thought back to what he had read in the dossier. He had nowhere near the eidetic memory that was contained within the genius head that lay on his shoulder, or the Mind Palace where every detail of importance to his consulting detective was stored, but there must have been at least enough to retain all the information contained in that folder. 

It was not something he could easily forget, nor could he delete as Sherlock probably already had. If John hadn’t been hardened by his military service, reading about and then observing the after-effects of Sherlock’s captivity and torture would have been more than he could bear. As it was, what was done to Sherlock still gutted him. 

‘Ram is the inbox, the hard drive is the filing cabinet,’ Sherlock had once explained, in the early days of their friendship, when John had asked how his Mind Palace worked. It was an ability he’d envied then, now he wondered how Sherlock kept it all sorted. And what happened when it overwhelmed him, as it must have at times while he was dead..away.

“Why not angry?”

John started at Sherlock’s soft voice in the dim light of near dawn. Tipping his head so he could peer into his face, John watched and waited, not certain if he was talking in his sleep.

“Why not angry?”

“Sherlock, are you awake?”

“Ja-awn, why not angry?”

John feathered the back of one finger along Sherlock’s cheek. When there was no response, he lifted one eyelid as gently as he could. Definitely still asleep. John grinned. Somehow, in his exhausted slumber, he spoke more clearly. Time would tell if that carried over when he awoke. Anything was possible. He thought it a bit cute that he used a minimum of words, almost like a child. It endeared him to Sherlock all the more.

“My genius,” he whispered, once again leaning in to tender a kiss. An eyebrow seemed the proper place at that moment. 

Sherlock nuzzled into his neck, drawing in a breath as if he were reacquainting himself. Reconnecting with home.

0o0

When John woke the next time, it was to Sherlock’s intense scrutiny, the rumple prominently displayed between his brows. He obviously had a question, or a dozen. Now that he’d slept, his brain was most likely fully online and ridiculously curious.

“What?” John took the preemptive strike.

“Hurt you?”

“Hurt me? Oh, no, you didn’t hurt me. You had a nightmare.”

“‘Es.”

“Do you remember any of it?” 

“‘Es.”

“Take your time. What do you remember?”

“On top.”

“Yeah, you were on top of me, but you didn’t hurt me.”

“Sowy.”

“Don’t be sorry. I liked it.”

“Wha?”

“I liked having you in my personal space.”

“Why?”

“Because I care about you, you git.”

“Doctor?”

“Ah, no. being a doctor has nothing to do with it.” John laughed. 

“Why?”

“Sherlock, you are my best friend. And in case you still haven’t a clue, I love you. You are the most precious person in my life.”

Sherlock rolled over John toward the edge of the bed, his elbow knocking the breath out of him.

“Oof. Easy on the goods, cowboy. What are you doing?”

Sherlock straddled him as he had earlier, this time sitting on his thighs. So, feeling better, then, John thought. The man was a wonder of nature. His thoughts froze, then fled when Sherlock slapped the dossier against he chest.

“Sherlock.”

“If oo uv me...done read in..funt uv me.”

“Why?”

“Cuz oo won’t...uv me...when...oo fin..ish. An I done...wan to ssee...dat happen.”

“Too late-” John began, but Sherlock’s terrified expression stopped his words cold.

“Oh.” 

That one word, spoken in a tiny voice he’d never heard before tore at John’s heart, nearly breaking him.

“Sherlock?” John reached out to hold his face. “Look at me, Sherlock. Look.at.me.”

John waited for only a single breath. “Sherlock, I’ve read every word, every word...and I still love you. Nothing you could do or say will change how I feel about you. You are everything to me.”

“‘Es?”

“Of course. You’re the genius. You have methods. Use them.”

Sherlock’s expression was blank.

“Oh, Sherlock, for god’s sake. Give me your hand,” he demanded, taking his hand and pressing it over his heart. “Heart racing which it does whenever you are near me. My eyes are probably dilated, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes, now blown wide, locked on him. He nodded. 

“And there’s more.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the epilogue, but the boys had other plans. They needed to talk and the time was right, so I just let them lead the way.
> 
> There will be one more chapter after this one so all will be well again.

Since the early days of their friendship John knew that Sherlock was an impatient, so it was a pleasant surprise when in the days following the revelation that he was loved unconditionally, Sherlock basked in the warmth of their new intimacy. 

With John’s loving attention, there was no longer a need for Sherlock to believe that alone was all he had or that alone protected him. John had fixated on those words so many times in those terrible days after and, ironically, had nearly accepted them as his own truth. He just couldn’t understand how he’d missed all the signs. That was then. 

After they’d each declared their love for one another, it wasn’t long before those words quietly passed from their collective memory. This was now, and everything was different, better.

John continued to be amazed at the speed with which his detective overcame his speech difficulty and now spoke with only a mild and very occasional glitch. And like a mother hen, John understood every word.

Of the few times John ventured outside the flat, usually when Mrs. Hudson was away or for some other reason she was unable to go to the shops for them, he’d nearly always found Sherlock waiting for him on the landing. Looking for all the world like a lost little boy, Sherlock’s forlorn expression burst into a comical smile, even though he’d never been alone for more than an hour.

Sherlock never failed to take the reusable shopper bags from John or greet him with what John thought of as a ‘puckered up kiss’ to avoid injuring either of them and a hug that squeezed the stuffing out of John. It was nice to be missed.

Weeks followed one into another, often without their notice. It was on one of those quiet, lazy evenings spent tangled together on the sofa simply enjoying each other’s company. John lay on his side, squashed quite intimately between the back cushions and his consulting detective, his head cautiously tucked under Sherlock’s chin, their arms around each other.

“John?” 

“Hm?” John suddenly found himself sprawled across Sherlock’s chest, held captive by two strong arms. John lifted his head to rest his chin on Sherlock’s sternum.

“Why are you not angry with me? You’ve yet to give me a satisfactory response and you know that I am an impatient man.”

For seconds John thought about trying to avoid ‘the talk,’ but it was Sherlock, and only the truth would do. Sherlock deserved nothing less. “To be honest, you asked while in the throes of a nightmare and I’d hoped you wouldn’t remember. I wasn’t ready to talk about it.”

At the touch of Sherlock’s finger to his lips, he let his eyes drift closed. Silence held them in its warmth for comfortable moments, but it wouldn’t last for long. John knew that as sure as he knew he loved Sherlock with his entire being.

“Are you ready now?” 

Staring into Sherlock’s eyes was like losing himself in a vortex, a mass of whorling fluid, ever-changing like a child’s kaleidoscope. 

John had kissed Sherlock many times since they’d confessed their love for one another, but never more sweetly than that moment. 

“You aren’t pro-cras-tinat-ing, are you, John?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I..I”

“Don’t be afraid, John. There is nothing you can sa..ay or do that will change how I feel about you. Those are your worse, no, words and they are no less true when I say them than they were when you said them to me.”

John lay his cheek over Sherlock’s heart. When Sherlock rested his long fingers over the crown of his head, he knew the time had come. 

“John, I’ve read the dossier that Mycroft compiled and passed on to you. You know near-ly all of what happened while I was..”

When Sherlock hesitated, John stiffened, not wanting to hear the word, not wanting to remember how on that day, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who died. 

As though Sherlock could read his mind, he paused. John waited with breath held.

“..Away.”

The slow breath John let out through his nose did little to ease the churning in his stomach. Relieved that the word had not crossed Sherlock’s lips, he was at a loss for something, anything meaningful to say.

“Since that day when we found each other again, I’ve not understood how you are not angry with me. What I did to you was unconscionable. Lacking the gift of empathy, I did not understand my own feelings for you. The worst of many scenarios I’d considered was that you would strike me. That you would take your own life because of me was one I never anticipated.” 

The anguish in his broken voice took John’s breath away.  
Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck and holding him tight was the best he could do at that moment.

“When I left London, my primary concern was your safety. I was left with no other choice but to leave you behind. You’ve read the dossier, so you know about the the snipers targeting you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. As long as I knew you were alive, and safe because you believed me dead, I could take down the organization, and when finished, return to London. The terrible loneliness I endured was because I missed you. Every moment of every day, every week, every month of those two years, everything I did was to insure that you lived. I can’t regret that. I only regret that I hurt you. And I will carry that regret for the rest of my life.”

John listened, hearing him with his heart, heard the emotion behind his words, as he increasingly struggled to speak. Sherlock was exhausted with the effort, but when he tried to silence him with a finger on his lips, Sherlock circled his long fingers round John’s shorter ones. 

The silence grew long between them until John threw caution to the wind. If Sherlock could open his heart, then he had no excuse not to grant him the same courtesy. 

“I was so alone and I owe you so much.” The words, spoken long ago and repeated at that precise moment, broke free, allowing John to open his heart to Sherlock about his own time away, his time away from Sherlock, the darkest, loneliest time of his life.

“There is nothing that you owe, Ja-awn, not to me. Anything you once thought you owed me has been repaid a thousand fold simply by being my friend.”

“But-”

Sherlock smiled crookedly, but to John he couldn’t have been more beautiful.

John gazed into his Sherlock’s eyes, now a luminous, crystal blue. “What have I ever done, my whole life, to deserve you?”

“Everything. Everything you’ve ever done is what you did.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were a doctor who went to war. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That’s me, by the way. Hello.” Sherlock waved a finger at John and playfully touched his nose. “You are addicted to a certain lifestyle and you are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people.”

“So, it was inevitable? You and me, I mean?”

“Is it truly such a surprise that the man you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?

John grinned at him. “Why is everything..always..my fault?”

Sherlock’s laughter vibrated through him. 

“Not fault, John. Incorrect word choice. Ow.” Sherlock pressed a finger against his jaw. “We chose each other. I said danger and there you were.”

“We did, didn’t we?”

“It is what it is,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss to John’s cheek.

0o0

John lay his head on Sherlock’s chest again, comforted a bit by the steady beat beneath his ear. Long arms surrounded him, keeping him tethered to the present despite the chaos of words inside his head.

“After you died, in between the melancholy and catatonic state, I obsessed about all the times I’d been angry about something you’d said or done and one day I realised that I was angry a lot.”

Sherlock remained silent, a gesture John appreciated. It was difficult enough to choose his words with care, keep to the truth and avoid hurting Sherlock all at once. 

“I know there are stages of grief, but I seemed to be all over the place. Nothing seemed to work, not even my therapist was any help. I couldn’t make sense of anything.”

Sherlock held him in a firm embrace while he spoke, relaxing his arms when John paused or held his breath to let the words fall wherever they chose.

“I’ve always been angry, probably from the day I was born. You knew that, and you probably expected me to punch you in the nose when you returned. In the first months I tried to bargain with God or the universe, or who or whatever, that if by some miracle I got you back, I would never again let myself get so angry that I might hurt you. I’d lived with that thought, that image, for so long that when I did get my miracle and you came back, I was so happy to have you again that all the anger just leaked out and disappeared.”

Tears fell, but Sherlock didn’t mind when he wiped his eyes on the t-shirt beneath his cheek. 

“I was lost, Sherlock, but I have you back now. I know that you faked your death to protect me. And Greg and Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mostly you, John.”

John smiled against the damp t-shirt.

“I don’t care how you did it, how you faked it, and I hope one day you will tell me about your time away. I know the why, and that’s enough for now. Nothing else is more important than having you here with me.”

“Have I told you today how much I love you, John Watson?”

John stretched up to gently press a kiss to those amazing lips.

“Your eyes tell me every time you look at me. Words are like the icing on the cake.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting the epilogue. It was a monster to wrangle into an ending that did our boys justice. (And I was a bit under the weather and my brain couldn't string two sentences together.) 
> 
> Thank you for staying with me, and thank you so much for all the kudos and comments that came my way. I love them all. You are the best of the best in the best fandom. (((Hugs))) to all. 
> 
> AJ

John waited on the stairs. Alone. His heart ached. Everything ached. Alone didn’t protect him, and at the moment it was all he had. It was ridiculous, even pathetic. After all, he knew where Sherlock had gone. 

It was six weeks to the day he’d set out with the intention of never returning, of taking his own life. Six weeks to the day he’d held Sherlock in his arms after two long years of grief and heartache. In those six weeks, they’d been apart less than a half-dozen times, each for less than an hour when he’d gone to Tesco. Sherlock rarely accompanied him to the shops before he..went away, so that was nothing new. Still, John keenly felt his absence as he careened up and down the aisles, never lingering more than a minute or two in any one area. The ease with which he’d navigated the chip and pin machine was not lost on him. 

Co-dependent? Sure, they both knew it. For now, as they regained their equilibrium, and learned to be with each other again, it worked. 

Staring at the piece of paper he held in his hand, Sherlock’s scrawled ‘Home soon’ written on it, John drew in a shaky breath and let it out with a heavy sigh. 

He recalled Sherlock’s sudden announcement that he’d go alone to have what he called his mouth apparatus removed. Mycroft would send a car, for privacy, he’d said. Although the thought of watching him walk out the door made him uneasy, closer to panic, he’d simply nodded. 

He must have exhibited some sort of expression that made Sherlock hesitate, as though he were afraid that by wanting to go alone, he was pushing John away, something he’d promised not to do. At the time it seemed that Sherlock knew his fears just by observing him. 

John had wanted to accompany him for moral support. He’d wanted to be there, oh, how he wanted to be there, but he decided his need to be with Sherlock, constantly, was a remnant of his insecurity. The deep-seated fear of being left behind and alone still haunted him, probably always would. At least that’s what he told himself every time his selfish heart accused him of being pathetic. It didn’t help that his quiet acceptance had drawn Sherlock’s intense scrutiny.

After six weeks of having his jaw wired shut, Sherlock was at his wits end, and John could only imagine the claustrophobic feelings he must have felt. He’d done well until the night previous to the procedure. Frantically pacing from one end of the flat to the other, he’d announced he’d had enough and asked John to snip the wires. 

John had hesitated, not with the ethics involved, for those were never up for debate, but with the words needed for his response to Sherlock’s frustrated plea. He’d breathed easier when his consulting detective pronounced it a moot point before John could speak.

“I know, John, my apologies, maxillofacial surgery is not your area,” he’d murmured with a huff. “I am overwhelmed by my frustration. I am held hostage by this apparatus and I’ve had enough. I just want it out!”

John had wrapped himself around him and cradled Sherlock’s head against his shoulder, holding him until his trembling eased and eventually disappeared.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could take them out for you.”

“I know, John, and I truly appreciate that you wish you could do that for me. Let’s play Operation.”

John shook his head at the sudden mood change. Distraction, from the frustration, he was certain.

“No, Sherlock, that game is for you and Mycroft. It’s on my Cluedo list.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “Your Cluedo list? Oh, right, the mental list that shouts ‘Do not play this game with Sherlock ever again.’

“That’s the one.”

“Pity. I’ve been practising.”

“And I have residual nerve damage that curtails my small motor skills.”

“Quite. My apologies, John.”

“No need. You’re frustration fills the room. Is there something else you’d like to play?”

John remembered fondly that Sherlock had managed his madman grin before folding his fingers around his wrist and guiding him to the sofa where they’d spent an hour kissing awkwardly and pretending that they were not terrified that anything more than kissing would cause damage to Sherlock’s fragile jaw.

When they lay together in the silence of last evening, John held Sherlock’s face in his hands, gazing into his eyes and finding peace there.

“You are the strongest man I know.”

“Only in your eyes, John.”

“I know it hasn’t been easy for you these last six weeks, learning how to talk with those things on your teeth and not talking to anyone but me.”

“Quite an accomplishment for someone who’s Mr. Punchline and would outlive God trying to have the last word.”

“Yes, yes, it is,” John agreed, purposely ignoring his own words thrown back at him because he’d observed the glint of humor in Sherlock’s eyes.

“John?”

“Hm?” John responded simply while tracing circles on Sherlock’s back.

“There’s no one else I’d rather talk to than you.”

“Thank you.”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“You have the amazing ability to see the best in me.”

“Not so amazing, Sherlock.”

“How so?”

“I love you. I see you with my heart.”

0o0

He’d brewed tea as an excuse to stretch out his legs and back, drinking only half of it before returning to his stake-out on top step of the landing.

John glanced at his watch, two hours gone, give or take, just seconds before the Baker Street door opened with a soft click and then closed again. Breath held, John listened to the familiar footsteps on the stairs.

“Sherlock?” John whispered as the love of his life navigated the turn of the stairs. 

Sherlock, in his Belstaff and aubergine button-up, lifted his eyes to rest on him. “John.”

John took his hand, leading him through the door to the sitting room beyond. John felt the warmth return to his body the moment Sherlock wrapped his arms around his shoulders and held him close with a hand at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry I was delayed a bit. All went well with the procedure. We can talk about it later. I’ve brought you a gift, John. Actually, two gifts,” he said, his deep baritone filling the room.

“Is your smile the second gift? Because from what I can see of it, it’s very pretty.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, but you’ll see in a few moments, after you open this gift, John.”

Opening the box and pushing aside the tissue, John lifted out a cable knit jumper, nearly identical to the oatmeal one that he’d somehow misplaced after that terrible day. He looked up at Sherlock, resisting the urge to tell him that he’d stopped wearing jumpers after he died. 

Died. The word didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected it to.

“Would you wear it for me, John?”

“Yes,” John whispered past the clot in his throat. As in the early days of their friendship, he thought as he pulled the jumper over his head and smoothed it over his chest.

“To the very best of times, John, from this day forward,” Sherlock whispered against his ear.

Then, the smile appeared, lighting up the most beautiful face John had ever seen. The one he’d missed, the one that did strange and wonderful things to him in all the right places. His heart thudded in his chest, but not in the least painful as Sherlock lowered his head to gently, tentatively, taking custody of his lips. Of their own will, John’s arms circled his detective’s neck and held on tight as Sherlock enclosed him in a fierce embrace.

Sherlock’s kiss, his second miracle, two years and six weeks and then some in the making, nearly melted him from the inside out. Closing his eyes and leaning into the kiss, John held fast to Sherlock to keep himself upright.

When they parted to relearn how to breathe, John rested his head against Sherlock’s chest and gave free reign to his thoughts.

For so long he’d felt wounded in heart and soul, so much so that his life had not been worth living. He’d stood looking into the abyss, his one last adventure to say goodbye to his best friend.

And now, he and Sherlock, together at last, stood on the threshold of a new adventure. Would there come a day that all the pain of their time apart would be nothing more than a distant memory? 

“John,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Hm?”

“You’re thinking.”

“Yes.”

“Whatever it is you are thinking about?”

“I-”

“It’s all fine, John.”John gazed into Sherlock’s eyes and in doing so, released his fear, for in those bright blue eyes, he found the truth. Despite the grief and sorrow and emptiness he’d suffered for those two years that felt like a lifetime, a wound as painful for him as the bullet that had shattered his shoulder, his love for this most precious man had not withered, nor had it died, but rather, it had held fast, whimpering in a dark corner of his heart. At the moment of Sherlock’s return, it had pushed away the walls of anger and allowed love to enter in.

Was it worth it? John’s heart supplied the answer without hesitation, as he went up on his toes to renew Sherlock’s kiss.

Yes. It was worth a wound, it was worth many wounds, to know the depth of loyalty and love within Sherlock’s heart.

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny tip of the cap to Amy Pond and the Eleventh Doctor for the reference to ‘Raggedy Man.’


End file.
